Diary of A Murderer
by LeeT911
Summary: Mireille and Kirika have long since gone their separate ways. Years later, Kirika returns to the apartment they once shared and discovers a letter her partner had written. shoujoai
1. Prologue: Queen of Darkness

- Diary of A Murderer  
- Noir Fanfiction by LeeT911 (LeeT911@hotmail.com --- any comments are appreciated)  
  
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Noir or any of its characters. There are spoilers in this, so if you don't want those, watch the anime first. This is a work of pure fiction and character depictions are all my own, although I have tried to keep them true to the original. Rated PG for hints of shoujo-ai/yuri/whatever you want to call it.  
  
SETTING: This takes place several years after the conclusion of the series. Mireille and Kirika have long since gone their separate ways. Kirika returns to the apartment she shared with Mireille and discovers a letter her partner had written. Note: Most chapters are excerpts taken from a diary Kirika keeps following her return to Paris.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Prologue: Queen of Darkness  
  
* * * * *  
  
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Kirika,  
  
Part of me wonders why you had to leave, even though I know very well.  
I don't hate you, Kirika.  
Please.  
Believe that.  
Despite what you may have done in the past; amidst all the killing, all the violence, I think...  
I think I've come to like you.  
Is it... love?  
I hate that word, hate its connotations.  
I hate what the world has done to twist its meaning.  
But hate... hate can never save...  
Hate never saved Chloe, never saved Altena.  
Not from you, not from... us?  
Noir? The black maidens?  
Who are we?  
I'm no longer sure, not even of myself.  
  
I know I will never give this letter to you.  
I know I will never have the courage to say these things to your face.  
Maybe, someday, you will read this when I'm far from here.  
Because I will leave as surely as you will.  
We need some time to find ourselves, to come to terms with everything that we are and everything we've done.  
You are not Soldat's child... and neither am I.  
I forgive you Kirika.  
  
I still remember pointing a gun at you and crying in the rain.  
I still remember you begging me to shoot you...  
Never...  
Never again...  
I didn't ask for this.  
I didn't ask for anything.  
All I ever wanted was to be happy.  
All I ever wanted was a friend.  
All I ever wanted was...  
Please don't cry for me.  
It's not worth the trouble.  
Let's forget the past.  
  
I understand that you can't stay here, with me.  
Go see what life is really like.  
You of all people deserve nothing less.  
Just remember... I'll be waiting.  
I'm sorry... for everything I did and didn't do, for everything I should and shouldn't have done.  
I won't promise, not this time.  
  
Kirika Yuumura...  
You may be the queen of darkness... but you're my queen of darkness.  
  
Love?  
Mireille Bouquet  
  
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A tear worked its way down Kirika's cheek as she finished reading letter. She had come back to Paris, after all these years. Come back to this place where she had spent the most important part of her life. The killing was behind her, the guilt was behind her. She could never be an ordinary girl. She accepted it.  
  
Mireille didn't live here anymore. It didn't surprise her. The apartment hadn't been touched since they had abandoned it. It still held so many memories, so much raw emotion. It didn't matter, nothing mattered anymore.  
  
Kirika folded up the letter and stuffed it in her pocket. Then she replaced the loose floorboard it had been under and stood up slowly. The last dying rays of the setting sun came through the broken window and bathed the apartment in a warm orange glow. It was cleansing, in its own way.  
  
"Mireille," she whispered into the emptiness, as the tears came in earnest, "all I ever wanted... was for you to love me."  
  
* * * * * 


	2. Day 1: The Vigil Begins

The Vigil Begins  
  
* * * * *  
  
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Day 1  
Dear Diary,  
  
Paris is beautiful in the springtime.  
Paris is beautiful anytime, but this time something's missing.  
What a joke.  
I know exactly what's missing. . .  
You.  
Mireille.  
I miss you.  
But I will be patient.  
As you were with me.  
When you're ready, you'll come back.  
I don't doubt that for a second.  
  
I fixed the apartment.  
I moved back into it.  
I know you won't mind.  
I know you don't care.  
Not right now.  
But you will.  
When you come back, there will be a home waiting for you.  
When you come back, I will be waiting for you  
  
The landlord thinks I'm a fickle little girl.  
I tend to my plants.  
I have a cat.  
I draw when I have the time.  
I write in my diary.  
But. . . it's always about you.  
The landlord thinks I'm innocent.  
Hardly.  
  
Murder is my daily bread; Death is my provider.  
Perhaps not anymore.  
But the purest water cannot wash my hands of the past.  
No atonement will cleanse me.  
Our crimes are too many.  
We are Noir, born to carry the sins of others.  
Noble sacrifice?  
Punishment.  
For we did not choose the roles thrust upon us.  
Do I regret it?  
Never.  
It may seem selfish to you.  
Maybe you wish I had never dragged you into my pilgrimage.  
But if I hadn't, I would never have met you.  
  
Enough of the past.  
Let us look to the future.  
There is hope for us yet.  
And so the wait begins.  
Take your time. . . Mireille.  
  
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Kirika dropped her pen and closed the diary. Her eyelids drooped. Writing always made her sleepy. She grabbed a blanket and lay down on the couch so that she could watch the sunset through the French windows. The sunset meant so much to her. How hard she had tried to capture its beauty in one of her paintings. It never came out quite the way she wanted. She sighed, and suppressed the thought as she closed her eyes.  
  
The stars slowly twinkled their soft glow onto Kirika's face. She didn't notice. She drifted off to sleep, hoping to dream of Mireille.  
  
* * * * * 


	3. Day 16: An Ode to Chloe

An Ode to Chloe  
  
* * * * *  
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Day 16  
Dear Diary,  
  
I saw a purple-haired girl today.  
She reminded me of Chloe.  
Chloe.  
I think of her sometimes.  
Do you?  
  
The perfect assassin.  
No fear.  
No mercy.  
No remorse.  
She only had one weakness.  
Me.  
  
I guess I was jealous of her.  
Envious of all the attention Altena lavished on her.  
Envious of everything she had that I didn't.  
But she cared for me.  
In her own twisted way, she wanted what was best for me.  
But maybe...  
Maybe you did too.  
Though you never realized it.  
  
Sometimes I wonder what Chloe would've been like without Altena.  
Sometimes I wonder what Chloe would've been like without me.  
Could she have ever stopped killing?  
Could she have just walked away from Soldats?  
The way we did?  
But we never walked away, did we?  
You never walked away.  
You came for me, when I ran away.  
  
Chloe admired you, Mireille.  
As much as she did me.  
The perfect assassin would never have admitted it.  
Too strong, too proud.  
Too scared.  
She was never perfect.  
I was never perfect.  
Yuu were never perfect.  
But who is?  
And so what does that matter?  
  
I wish it could have been otherwise.  
Of all the deaths I've caused, hers pains me the most.  
Life is cruel.  
Soldats is cruel.  
Noir is no better.  
A team of two.  
Of the three, one must fall.  
I'm sorry, Chloe.  
  
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Kirika left her diary on the dining table and stepped into the kitchen where tea was brewing. Silvery moonlight filtered in through the half opened drapes. Tea in the moonlight, how fitting.  
  
She pulled open a drawer to get a spoon. A moonbeam found its way into the room and glinted off a fork. A fork? Kirika was inexplicably drawn to it. Her hand reached out and took a hold of it. She ran her thumb over the prongs, distinctly feeling their sharpness.  
  
Suddenly enraged, she pressed her thumb hard into the fork, feeling the warm blood creep down her wrist. Her other hand let the cup of tea crash to the floor, where the hot liquid steamed into the cool moonlight. In one fluid motion, she flipped the fork into throwing position and flung it at the wall. It buried itself into the soft plasterboard, quivering erratically as it came against solid wood.  
  
Kirika looked down at her bleeding hand and began crying. She fled the room.  
  
Tonight, sleep would not come.  
  
* * * * * 


	4. Day 37: Darkness Everlasting

Darkness Everlasting  
  
* * * * *  
  
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Day 37  
Dear Diary,  
  
Last night I dreamed of you.  
It was a nightmare.  
We fought each other with those little knives Chloe loved.  
You were empty.  
Hollow.  
Homicidal.  
  
Enthralling.  
I never noticed how beautiful you were in motion.  
When we fought side by side it was always out of instinct.  
The plan was laid out, but even when it wasn't, we knew out of hand, what the other was doing...  
What the other was thinking.  
Beautiful.  
  
The flow of movement, the rhythm of strikes.  
The incessant chatter of steel on steel.  
The glint of sunlight off a bared blade.  
You stabbed me again and again.  
Always in the same arm.  
Always as I raised it to block a fatal blow.  
I never cried out.  
And you left those blades there, hanging in my arm.  
A fresh knife always ready.  
  
Eventually we stopped.  
Or rather, I stopped  
Pulled away.  
My arm hurt.  
Flexing muscles could feel each blade distinctly.  
I plucked them from my body.  
One at a time, every removal drawing a gasp or a cringe.  
The pain.  
So intense.  
So blessedly sweet.  
So real.  
  
I collapsed, blood pooling beneath me.  
It was then that you came to me, weapon held high, secure in your victory.  
I cried.  
You held me.  
Embraced me, soothed me.  
You pressed the flat of your blade into my back, reminding me of its presence.  
The feeling was unnerving, maddening.  
Hauntingly familiar.  
I wept.  
  
I woke.  
Alone.  
Cold.  
Hungry.  
Nightmare?  
Perhaps not.  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
The sun was just barely reaching the peak of its journey. Kirika sighed. She had never written anything in the morning before, but today the words had leapt at her, forced her to her pen upon waking. The dream still burnt freshly in her mind. So real... In a way, was it... better? No. Mireille would come back, and they would have something to share again. Kirika wiped the sweat from her forehead with a wrist. The words had consumed her; she was tired again, and still hungry.  
  
Beyond the window, birds flapped around lazily in the early summer warmth, oblivious to the turmoil of the lonely girl within.  
  
* * * * * 


	5. Day 65: Moment of Weakness

Moment of Weakness  
  
* * * * *  
  
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Day 65  
Dear Diary,  
  
It's my birthday today.  
At least, that's what it says underneath my picture.  
I'm nineteen today.  
Lie.  
Or is it?  
Soldats gave me this identity.  
Why would they hide my age?  
Why would they change my birth date?  
Or do they withhold information out of hand, simply because it is their way.  
It doesn't matter.  
A birthday means nothing to me.  
Another year, another "one" added to my age.  
I don't care.  
It is a special day for me, for all the wrong reasons.  
I have nothing to celebrate.  
No friends or family to celebrate with.  
Is there anyone at all who's happy that I was born?  
Mireille?  
  
I took a walk today.  
Up the train tracks, to where they cross the highway.  
I sat on the rail overpass, above the road, and watched the cars go by.  
I thought of jumping.  
Just taking a dive, and ending it all.  
Fifteen meters to the road.  
If the fall doesn't kill me, there are always the cars.  
I stand on my toes.  
Hands gripping the railing, ready to fling myself over.  
  
Pause.  
Why? I wonder.  
Why jump?  
Why not?  
Hesitation.  
  
Fear never stopped me.  
Danger never stopped me.  
Pain never stopped me.  
Why now?  
I have always been a killer.  
Just one more death, and I will have release.  
But my legs do not obey.  
Fingers tighten their hold.  
Arms lock up, goose bumps rising against the chill of the wind.  
I see your face.  
  
I see you in the stars.  
In the clouds.  
In the moon.  
I see you in the headlight of the approaching train.  
I see you crying at my grave.  
An unmarked stone for and unremarkable girl.  
I dare to hope that you will remember me.  
Dare to hope that you will visit me.  
Dare to hope that there is a better place, even for someone like you and I.  
I step away from the abyss.  
I can't do this.  
I want to go on hoping.  
I want to go on believing.  
I want to go on...  
If only to see you.  
  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Kirika closed her notebook as the sound of the train faded into the distance. She stood slowly, the acrid taste of fear working its way into her mouth. Fingers reached for the nearby railing, fearing that her mind would lose its will once again.  
  
Below her, an assortment of gleaming motorized insects buzzed by indifferently. The sight of the vehicles shook her profoundly. She had been so close to the edge. Her hand clutched ever so tightly, nails digging little curved marks into her palm. There was no pain, only numbness. Kirika screamed. It was a loud, primal scream. An angst-ridden wail that fell short against the roar of engines.  
  
She looked around, suddenly self-conscious. She dropped away from the railing, staggering back a few steps. Adrenaline coursed freely in her veins. A metallic smell from the recently used train tracks assaulted her nose, abruptly dispelling her trance. She spun, seeming dazed or confused, but eerily ended up facing the the road again..  
  
Carefully, Kirika gathered up the diary she had dropped at her feet. Rain began falling softly, water from the sky mingling with that from her eyes.  
  
"Mireille," she whispered into the drizzle, "please be stronger than I am."  
  
* * * * * 


	6. Interlude: Fated Rain

Interlude: Fated Rain

*  *  *  *  *

The ceiling fan whirred its way around monotonously.  Mireille's eyes went in circles, following a dust ball caught on one of the blades.  She lay splayed out on the bed, sweating into the sheets, as the air conditioner in the window strained ineffectively to combat the oppressive summer heat.  Across the room, the untouched Chinese food she had ordered last night stewed in its semi-congealed sauces.

It was a cheap motel.  Exactly what she had wanted.  The expensive hotels had begun to bore her.  Here it was not impeccably clean and the service was poor.  It had cable TV, but few other amenities.  A cheap motel in the outskirts of the city.  It fit her feverish mood perfectly.

Away from the downtown core, away from all the bustle, it was quieter.  So much more peaceful, so much easier to dwell on the past.  And here, there were no maids and bellboys waiting to clean your room and take your bags,  no taxis waiting to drive you when you were too lazy to walk.  Here, you could be alone.

_Alone?  Is that what you really want?_

_No._

She sighed.  Of all the places in the world, she had come here.  Quebec.  Montreal, specifically.  Where it was agonizingly cold in the winter, and horrendously hot in the summer. 

_Why?_

_The language.  It reminds me of home._

The people here speak French differently, it is not home.  The pronunciations were different, the expressions different.  Her accent, no matter how subtle, instantly marked her as a foreigner.

_You miss home._

_Corsica__?  Never._

The sunny beaches, the temperate climate, the smell of the ocean.  None of it mattered.  Those were all things that could be found elsewhere.  Things that, while nice, did not define the place that she called home.  She had once lived there, in Corsica, a long time ago.  She had even gone back to visit, just once.  But, no, it was not home.  That was not where she had grown up, not where she had become the woman she was now.  When she left Corsica she had been a little girl, clinging to her teddy bear and to her uncle's hand.  Uncle Claude, because her parents were dead.

_Assassinated._

_Kirika._

The name wormed its way into her head.  There were no barriers against this.  She didn't bother fighting it.  It flowed through her: the memories, the regrets, the fear.  Always the fear.  She had once been the most dangerous assassin in all the world, save for one.  Maybe two,  but Chloe was dead.  Most likely, she still was a deadly killer, but there was no point anymore was there?

_Why do you kill?_

_Because there's nothing else I can do._

In truth, Mireille didn't know.  That would have been Kirika's answer, not her own.  She found herself wondering how the girl was now, where the girl was now.  Because, in the end, all the killing, it had been for Kirika's sake.  Maybe it had started out selfishly, but it had always been tied to Kirika.  Mireille was not a killer out of necessity, nor did she have a pure desire for murder.

_Why do **you **kill?_

_Revenge.  Hate.  Retribution.  Soldats._

Words.  Meaningless words.  Those were not reasons.  Not her reasons.  

Soldats.  Mireille hated them.  At some point, it had been all about them.  Soldats had become the world in which she lived.  Soldats had always been involved in her life.  She hated them for it, hated them for taking away her parents, for taking away her Uncle Claude, for taking away Kirika.  Most of all, she hated them for ruining the life of that girl.  The girl who had become so special.

_That girl?  When was the last time you were afraid to name her?_

_I was never afraid._

The thought sounded hollow to her.  As if to impress the point, the ceiling fan suddenly clunked to a stop, then began yet another wobbly dance, this time noticeably slower.  A fly passed over Mireille's face, its flight deflected by the erratic fan.  A strange smell wafted to her nostrils and made her nose itch, but she was reluctant to budge, didn't even crinkle her face.

She was going insane.  It must be the heat.

_Of course.  The heat._

_There's no other explanation._

_You're crazy._

_Heatstroke._

_You're crazy._

_Fever._

_You miss her._

_. . ._

The fan continued its pointless winding, every now and then displaying a sudden subtle variation that only Mireille noted.  She lay there the rest of the day, and into the next.  And though the night was cooler and much more comfortable, her eyelids never closed for anything more than a blink.  The sun rose, but the heavy drapes over the window kept it out of her little room.

She didn't know how long she stayed in the bed.  Eventually her body drove her from it.  Hunger and thirst cried out.  She stood up quickly, an animal-like intensity in her eyes.

The old Chinese food was still on the table.  She ate it, every single scrap, gorged herself until there was nothing left.  The fact that it had been sitting out in the open for more than two days never occurred to her.  She even drank the warm cola that had originally come with it.  Then she went back to bed.   And this time Mireille did sleep.

*  *  *  *  *

She woke less than two hours later, scrambling to the bathroom, where she was violently ill.  Her stomach cramped, forcing out the putrefied food she attempted to keep down.  It tasted even worse coming up than going down.  Disgusted with herself, she stepped into the shower, not even bothering to remove her clothes.  The cold spray calmed her, removed the filth from her spirit as well as her body.

Mireille spent a long while in the shower, under the pure cleansing water.  She turned her face up towards the showerhead, like a child playing in the rain for the first time.  The streams of water plastered her hair to her head.  Her clothes soaked through completely, clinging to her form.  She rejoiced.

The fever had passed.  When she stepped out of the bathroom, she felt much better.  Refreshed.  Awake.  Alive.

Water from her hair and clothes dripped onto the second-rate carpeting.  She walked over to the bed and sat down, leaving a puddle that seeped rapidly into the sheets.  There was a phone there, next to the bed.  Mireille scanned the list of phone numbers conveniently provided by the motel.

_This one.  _

She took the phone off its cradle and dialed.  Immediately after the first ring, the call was answered by the automated computer system.  Mireille went through the menus, compliantly pushing the buttons on the phone until she was finally greeted by a human operator with a bright cheery voice.

Her voice rang loudly in the empty apartment.  "_J'aimerai__ aller à __Paris__._" (1)

*  *  *  *  *

-

-

-

(1)  "I'd like to go to Paris."


	7. Day 92: Imaptient Solitude

Impatient Solitude  
  
* * * * *  
  
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Day 92  
Dear Diary,  
  
Do you believe in God?  
I don't.  
Do you believe in fate?  
I don't know.  
Sometimes I wonder why I even bother.  
Someitmes I wonder why I even care.  
  
Sometimes I wake up screaming, the question branded in my mind.  
Silence.  
Darkness greets.   
The shadows elude me.  
In the dead of night, I find myself praying to a God who does not answer.  
Praying?  
I have never been faithful.  
I have never had cause to be faithful.  
It is not a prayer.  
It is simply a wish.  
May the powers that be grant me this one small favor...  
  
I don't know how much longer I can wait.  
Patience ebbs.  
Every day, the most mundane tasks become more frustrating.  
Just a few months ago, I was cooking.  
Now I just order out, not even bothering to leave.  
I used to be neater, more meticulous.  
Now the apartment is a mess.  
I find I don't care.  
I care only enough to take note of it, without doing anything about it.  
Somedays I'm afraid to get out of bed.  
  
What if you return today?  
What if you're nothing like when you left?  
When I left.  
What if you don't remember me?  
What if you never come back?  
Please do, Mireille.  
If you don't, I'll feel guilty.  
And then, forgiveness or not, I truly will wish that you'd shot me.  
  
Noir.  
A name for two.  
Did you ever wonder why?  
I think I know now.  
Murder is a personal act, something best dealt one on one.  
Chloe would have agreed.  
But the burden is too great for one to bear.  
We survived.  
Barely.  
Chloe was desperately anguished.  
She was alone.  
She reached out to us.   
To me...   
Because there was no one else.  
Altena never understood.  
Poor Chloe.  
Poor Mireille.  
I miss you.  
  
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Kirika sighed. She glanced at the slice of pizza hanging limp in her left hand. One bite was gone from the tip. Just one. Eating and writing don't go together, she concluded. Not that her lack of appetite was solely the fault of her diary. She took one more bite. The pizza had turned cold. Dejectedly, she threw the slice back into the box and headed to the bedroom. The bed was soft. It did not comfort her. She lay on her back, hands behind her head, staring blankly at the smooth, unbroken ceiling. She did not sleep.  
  
Unknowingly, she adopted the trademark look of detachment that had masked her so long ago. Eyes impassive, lips drawn tight into a line of utter neutrality. Her breathing slowed as she drifted off into her thoughts. To say that she was "thinking", was an understatement. Kirika was lost in her mind, reflecting on the past, pondering her existence, contemplating the vagaries of life. Her musings unerringly turned to Mireille.  
  
Eventually, sunbeams found their way onto the bed. Morning beckoned. Birds chirped outside the window. Warm summer breezes brought the smell of fresh bread from the bakeries on the street below.   
  
Kirika paid no heed to any of it.  
  
* * * * * 


	8. Day 94: Silent Therapy

Silent Therapy  
  
* * * * *  
  
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Day 94  
Dear Diary,  
  
I didn't write anything yesterday.  
For the first time.  
I spent the day aimlessly staring at the ceiling, lost in my reverie.  
I don't know why.  
  
It was the cat that brought me out of it.  
She needed to be fed.  
I obliged.  
Somehow, the world seems brighter today.  
In retrospect, my melancholy was...  
Pointless?  
Unfounded?  
Necessary?  
All of the above.  
  
I thought about you, Mireille.  
One idea seamlessly flowing into another.  
The day disappeared.  
Lost to daydreams and fleeting glimpses of shared history.  
A whole day gone.  
Wasted?  
I wouldn't say that.  
  
There's something about contemplation.  
Such a bittersweet pastime.  
So easy to dwell on the past.  
So easy to dream about the future.  
In that one day, I must have dreamed a thousand scenarios.  
Constant replays of what I should have said or should have done.  
  
I won't know what to do when you come back.  
I keep hoping it will be simple.  
I keep hoping it will be easy.  
I keep hoping you won't hate me.  
But despite it all, I can't wait.  
I want you to return.  
But why would you come back?  
What reason would you have?  
  
What is there here for you?  
Home?   
I would hardly call your wrecked apartment home.  
Work?   
I doubt you still work, or even want to.  
Family? (I'm sorry)  
I don't know of any.  
Friends?  
Me?  
Do you think of me, Mireille?  
Have you thought of me all this time?  
Are you looking for me, afraid that I never came back?  
I wish I could know.  
Do you miss me, Mireille?  
  
I know I shouldn't think so much of myself.  
I ask myself why you would even care about me.  
But...  
I think you always have.  
  
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Kirika looked up from her writing in time to see the moon rise from behind a nearby building. She reached out and pet her small cat. The animal rubbed against her palm, enjoying the contact. She stroked the soft fur, taking pure delight in the satisfied mewlings.  
  
"I never named you." Kirika observed, as she brushed a hand through her own unkempt hair.  
  
The cat looked at her quizzically, its piercing green eyes captivating hers.  
  
"I can't just call you 'Cat' forever."  
  
Tensing quickly, the cat leapt from the table into her lap. Kirika didn't mind. She continued to play with it. The feline stretched, playfully slapping at Kirika's hands with her paws.  
  
It was an image that recalled memories of a time past. Mireille would have thought so. Kirika on the other hand, was too caught up in the moment. The cat reared up, trying to reach the girl's face. Kirika distracted it by presenting a treat she had hidden in her pocket. The cat gobbled it quickly, having already considered this game worthwhile. Nonetheless, it continued to climb up Kirika's arm, swatting at her dark hair.  
  
Kirika grabbed the cat suddenly, lifting it off her and pressing its nose into her own. The cat mewled, still trying to touch the girl. Kirika cuddled the animal against her face, relishing the warm touch. The cat squirmed pleasantly, delighted that this girl loved her so much.  
  
After a few minutes, Kirika put the cat back on the table, treating it to another snack. Then, for the first time in a long time, she smiled.  
  
* * * * * 


	9. Day 105: Subtle Fading

Subtle Fading  
  
* * * * *  
  
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Day 105  
Dear Diary,  
  
I'm thinking of leaving again.  
Waiting seems so pointless now.  
I was gone for years.  
Whatever made me think you would be back soon?  
  
How long did you wait for me, Mireille?  
How long did it take before you grew frustrated?  
Did you even wait at all?  
Or did you just decide to move on with your life?  
Whatever made me think you wanted to come back at all?  
I guess I never moved on.  
I guess I'm still clinging to that letter you never sent me.  
  
I read it again.  
I thought that maybe you wanted to see me...  
One last time.  
Now I realize I have no idea when you wrote that.  
Maybe you don't even care anymore...  
People change.  
I've changed.  
But I can't imagine you being any different.  
  
That is what I'm clinging to.  
That when you come back, you will be exactly the same as when you left.  
Only, you will have made peace with your demons.  
I wish it were that simple.  
Even though I know it wasn't that way for me.  
  
But every day, there is a chance.  
Every day, I think "maybe today".  
The longer I wait, the more I'm sure that tomorrow will be the day.  
Every night I go to bed in despair.  
Every morning I wake in anticipation of seeing you.  
Every day I grow more anxious.  
But I tell myself to wait...  
I tell myself...  
Just a little longer.  
  
Why do I keep writing about this?  
Why is it that every second day, I end up whining?  
I know it's unhealthy.  
I try to distract myself.  
Television is singularly useless.  
The cat is wonderful.  
But she's not enough.  
I try to draw.   
And it works sometimes.  
But still, it is only a temporary reprieve.  
Music enchants me.  
But too often it evokes nostalgic emotions I don't care for.  
I want this to be over.  
  
Just this once, I want it to end happily.  
Is that asking too much?  
  
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Kirika dropped her pen, wincing as it clattered onto the tabletop. She glanced over at her cat. It was sleeping on the couch, stirring gently and nodding its head as if in the midst of a pleasant dream. Kirika was instantly envious.  
  
She switched off the lamp at her table, letting the darkness of night consume the apartment. There were very few stars tonight. As if on cue, the clouds parted to allow the moon to shine through. Somewhere down the street, a stray dog howled at the sight.  
  
Kirika stepped over to the open window. Just as quickly, the howling died away. A soft breeze gusted up, rifling the pages of the her opened notebook. She was suddenly very frustrated, filled with a need to break the silence. A powerful compulsion to scream gripped her, but she stifled it, afraid of waking the cat and angering the neighbours. Somewhere far away, a siren sounded.  
  
"One more day..." She whispered to herself, knowing full well it was a lie.  
  
* * * * * 


	10. Finale: Redemption and Truth

Finale:  Redemption and Truth

*  *  *  *  *

Mireille drove into Paris with the rising sun in her eyes.  Despite the loose traffic restrictions and the lack of highway patrols, she traveled impossibly slow.  The trip across the Spanish border had been made at an equally sluggish pace.  She cursed her own apprehension.

The flight had been from Montreal to Madrid, and then onto Paris.  Strangled by an overwhelming sense of panic, she had debarked the plane during the stopover.  It seemed the closer she got to her objective, the more fretful she became.  So here she was, three weeks later, in a rental car, with the Parisian skyline finally in sight.  Somehow, it still felt like home.

It had been more than a year since last she had set foot here.  The car passed landmarks, restaurants, stores.  All of it was familiar, alluring, but Mireille did not stop.  She pushed onwards with singular purpose.

Skyscrapers and office complexes flew by as she made her way through the downtown area, where the rush hour traffic was just beginning to pick up.  Beyond that came the apartment buildings, hundreds of them packed together in one dense swell of humanity.

As she drew nearer to her destination, Mireille felt her resolve wavering.  Even with the blast of air coming through the open windows of the car, she had a sudden inability to breathe.  The car rolled to a stop at the side of the road.

Mireille leaned back in the driver's seat, removing her sunglasses.  For one brief moment, she wanted to start the car again and turn around, but the sensation passed quickly.  Nevertheless, she stayed put, simply staring ahead, unable to force herself into action. Nostalgia overcame her, stirring up memories that left her numb.  What was she afraid of?  Going back to an empty apartment?  

When she finally summoned the courage to press on, the sun was well past its zenith..

*  *  *  *  *

Kirika sat pensively in front of the television.  Disjointed images that she didn't bother to note flashed across the screen.  The news anchor rambled on about natural disasters and economic crises.  She tuned him out, concentrating instead on the sketchbook in front of her.

The blank page scowled at her, as if challenging her to blemish its virgin form.  Kirika's hand hovered closer, pencil tightly grasped in her fingers.  She hesitated.  Not a thought came to mind.  Or rather, there were too many thoughts, too many inconsequential thoughts, too many thoughts about the wrong things.

Just to spite the feeling, Kirika sketched out some scenery.  A few trees by the riverbank, water flowing cleanly, the sun poking through sparse clouds.  She spent maybe five minutes drawing, then pulled away to consider her work.  It disgusted her.  She threw the sketchbook onto the coffee table, where it landed next to the letter Mireille had left her.

Unable to help herself, Kirika leaned forward and took hold of the letter.  With the endless droning of the news announcer in the background, she read it yet again, feeling the frustration build.  In a sudden fit of anger, she snatched up the remote and flung it at the television.  Miraculously, it struck the power button, shutting off the TV and spilling an uneasy silence into the apartment.

The cat leapt onto the table, its gaze questioning the girl.

Kirika sighed.  She leaned forward, flipping open her journal.  With the pencil still in her hand, she scratched a few words in the margin, not bothering to date the page.

"I'm going for a walk."  She announced, leaving her diary open on the table.

The cat only stared at her.

*  *  *  *  *

A small white cat greeted Mireille as she timidly pushed open the door.  Surprisingly, her key still fit, even though the apartment was clearly occupied.  The smell of tea and flowers assaulted her nose.  It was a mixture of two rich scents, yet the combined effect wasn't overpowering.  The aroma was pleasant, almost spring-like in its intensity, which wasn't startling since greenery abounded.

That wasn't the only change.  The whole apartment had been renovated.  Floor redone, windows fixed, walls repainted.  The work had been done fairly recently, but long ago enough so that the smell of construction was not all-pervasive.  Some of Mireille's original furniture was still there; some had been replaced.  Yet all of it was exactly the way she remembered.  Every item positioned where it used to be.  Even her pool table desk remained as the centerpiece.  It was eerily familiar, yet subtly different at the same time, a testament to her taste in interior design.

The cat hissed, wary of this stranger, but unwilling to relinquish its territory.  Mireille regarded the animal, fascinated by it.  It seemed so much like another cat, from a long time ago.  What was that cat's name again?  Prince...?

"Prince?"  She tried tentatively.

The cat hissed again, baring its teeth.  No one came out to see what she was doing in their apartment.  The tenants must be out.  She hadn't really expected to find anyone, though part of her had hoped nonetheless.

The cat evaded her with surprising gracefulness, bounding off into the kitchen.  Mireille did not pursue.  It was a guess anyway, and wishful thinking on her part.  Besides, although she couldn't recall the other cat's name she did remember it being much older.  This one was still a kitten.

Feeling very much like an intruder, but powerless to stop herself, Mireille began walking through the apartment.  Though the cat avoided her, she stepped into all the rooms, recalling memories and anecdotes along the way.

The bedroom was organized in a very ordinary way.  The bed was made, clothes were neatly hung up in the closet.  There was nothing at all that set the place apart.  There was nothing at all to indicate who it was that lived here now.

The first thing Mireille checked was the loose floorboard.  Her letter was gone.  Maybe the new tenants had found it when they moved in.  Maybe Kirika had found it.  But then where was she?

Mireille laughed.  A high, near-hysterical laugh.  Had she really expected Kirika to come back?  Had she really expected Kirika to stay here and wait for her?  Of course not.  Mireille continued her tour of the apartment, careful not to disturb anything else, so as not to let the new occupants know anyone had been here.

There was a plant by the large windows that drew her attention.  It was in the same place her plant used to be.  It even rested on that same table.  She drifted to the window, peered down onto the street, almost hoping to catch sight of Kirika.  No such luck.

The plant was thin and pretty.  Not like the leafy thing she used to have.  This one was a flowering plant, possessed with a certain fragile serenity.  A single violet bud was visible, ready to bloom.  She stroked the leaves gently, cradling the delicate flower-to-be in her fingers.

Time passed slowly as she stood by the window, waiting.  For what?  She didn't know.  Unconsciously, she ran her fingers down the length of the plant, around its pot, beneath it, half-expecting to find another message for herself.  There was nothing.  Undeterred, she continued gazing out across the street, unaware of how closely she imitated Kirika's past moods.

The cat brought Mireille out of her trance.  It mewled plaintively in the kitchen, scratching at one of the cupboards.  When Mireille came to investigate, it only nudged her leg and looked up plaintively at her, making chewing motions with its jaws.

"You must be hungry."  Mireille was undoubtedly right, because the cat sat up straight at the word 'hungry'.

Rummaging through the kitchen, she found a package of pet food, from which she scooped out a small portion.  She also poured a saucer of milk, setting both on the floor for the cat.

As the animal voraciously dug into its meal, Mireille wandered back out to the front of the apartment and sat on the couch.  She thought of turning on the television, but that would be getting too comfortable.  After all, this wasn't her apartment anymore.  She didn't know what else to do.  She had come back to Paris specifically to see this place.  There was nowhere else to go.

A folded piece of paper on the coffee table caught her eye.  She picked it up.  Mireille was struck by the fact that this paper seemed so familiar.  The way it was folded, the smudges of ink that showed through the back, this was...

Her letter. The letter she had never given Kirika. It gave her hope.  Maybe Kirika was actually here.  Maybe Kirika had found the letter.  Maybe Kirika was waiting for her...  Maybe.

Mireille did not read the letter again, didn't even bother unfolding it.  She had long ago memorized every word.  She thought only of putting it back.  As she did so, she noticed an open notebook with a few words scrawled on the page.  That in itself wasn't surprising, but the first two words were... her name.

_Mireille Bouquet_

_Let there always be Light and Water for the Tree_

The sentence mesmerized her.  She flipped to the beginning of the book.  Three words had been written across the first sheet in bold black strokes.

**_Je suis Noir_******

Mireille turned the page.  It was a diary.  Her name appeared in almost every entry, she saw, and her heart clenched at the thought.  Not wanting to pry too much, she simply thumbed through the book, without catching most of the words.  Some of the pages however, would not turn easily.  They were crinkled and smudged, spotty even, as though Kirika had written while... crying.

Intrigued, Mireille settled down to read.

*  *  *  *  *

Kirika walked home under an orange sky.  The late evening sun engulfed the atmosphere in its fiery glow, setting ablaze the few clouds that floated above her.  She made it back to her building just as the sun dipped out of sight.  Wearily, Kirika headed for the stairs.

She was aware of the intruder even before entering the apartment.  The entire floor was bathed in the wonderful smell of seafood and butter.  Strangely enough, it was emanating from behind her own door.

With the practiced grace of a dancer, Kirika slipped silently inside.

*  *  *  *  *

She stopped in the kitchen doorway, captivated by the sight of the blonde woman in her kitchen.  Kirika recognized her instantly, even from behind.  There was something about her, something in the stance, the movements, the classy clothes.

"Mireille."  It was spoken quietly, a simple statement.  A statement of truth.

The blonde pivoted immediately at the sound of the voice, the frying pan slipping from her hands to the floor.  It clattered loudly against the tiles, dumping its contents haphazardly about.  Neither Mireille nor Kirika bothered to retrieve it.

A well of silence followed the fracas, a long moment in which the two just stood there, staring at each other.

Kirika looked older than Mireille remembered, although her eyes, which had once radiated indifference, were now softer and gentler.  The maturity remained; however, she didn't seem as supremely confident as before.  It was as though Kirika had lost some of that hard edge she used to possess.  She wore the same type of non-descript clothes.  Her ragged mop of black hair was in the same perpetual state of disarray, listless curls falling into her face.  But even though her appearance hadn't really changed, Kirika came across as more vibrant than she used to be.

"Mireille."  Kirika repeated, and this time she reverted to her accent, pronouncing the last syllable sharply.  The younger girl tensed suddenly, and Mireille thought she was going to be jumped, but both of them held their ground.

Mireille tried to respond, but her voice was choked with emotion, and it came out as an inaudible mumble.  She raised her hand weakly, as if to punctuate her inability to speak.

Now Kirika did jump at her, wrapping her arms around Mireille.  "Mireille!  You came back!"

"Kirika."  Mireille whispered faintly, tears coming to her eyes as she recalled all the things she had read in the diary.

At he sight of her partner crying, Kirika felt her own eyes begin to well up.

Embarrassed, but starved for contact, they clung to each other for a long time without daring to look.  Mireille closed her eyes, crushing the other girl to herself, surprised at how warm Kirika actually felt.  The dark hair tickled Mireille's face, and some of her tears fell into it, shimmering as the pull of gravity traced them along the black strands.

Kirika held tightly to Mireille's neck, unwilling to let go and not wanting to see her cry.  Every tear that struck her head reassured her.  Mireille was back.  Mireille was here.  Absently, Kirika pushed her hand beneath the blond hair away and stroked the nape of Mireille's neck.

Gradually, calm returned.  The tears halted, and eventually the both of them managed to still their trembling as well.  Mireille's hands slid down to Kirika's waist, and she had a sudden intense desire to hold her again, but she pulled away.  Finally their eyes met.

Kirika blinked, and Mireille noted the pristine quality of her face, the lack of makeup, the lack of jewelry, the lack of any fashion trappings in general.  She reached out to touch it, but Kirika snatched the hand out of the air, entwining her own thin fingers into Mireille's.  The Japanese girl offered only a smile.

For Mireille, that smile was everything.  How long had it been, since the last time this girl had smiled?  She wondered.  So rare.  In all the time they had known each other, Mireille had very seldom seen Kirika smile.  So beautiful.  Unconsciously, the ends of her mouth began lifting of their own accord.

Kirika saw the smile overcome Mireille's face, wanted to embrace her once more, but suppressed the notion, still too embarrassed.  Still too afraid.

The blonde was the first to speak again.  "You ruined dinner."  Mireille pointed out, nodding her head in the direction of the dropped frying pan.

Kirika's smile didn't wane.  "We'll make something else."  With Mireille's hand still firmly clenched in hers, Kirika dragged her partner out of the kitchen.

*  *  *  *  *

They ate canned soup instead.  Neither of them complained.  Simply wallowing in the other's company was enough.

For once it seemed as though the roles had been reversed.  Mireille kept a guarded silence, basking in everything Kirika wanted to share, but offering little of her own in response.  She was content with merely being here, listening to Kirika's voice.  Kirika, on the other hand, was overflowing with so many things to say, she had to stop to keep herself from babbling.  Her excitement was clearly evident, and Mireille was touched by the atypical display of passion.

After their meal, as Mireille took the dishes into the kitchen,  Kirika strayed to the couch and sat down, trying to force some semblance of calm into her demeanor.  Her fingertips were all numb and tingly, as were her feet.  It felt like her blood wasn't making it to the extremities.  She closed her eyes, holding her hands tightly in her lap, as though it would somehow stop the fidgeting.  She strained to slow her breathing, searching for a rhythm that was less racy.

Mireille stood at the window for a few moments, admiring Kirika.  It seemed like she was meditating, sitting there with her eyes closed, her lungs taking in shallow breaths.  A light breeze blew into the apartment, ruffling her hair and clothes slightly.  As if taken by a sudden fit of inspiration, Kirika eyes shot open, and she grabbed her diary.

Mireille glided over to the sofa on her bare feet.  Earlier, she had kicked off those ungainly heels she had become so accustomed to wearing.  She sat next to Kirika, conspicuously leaving the seat between them empty.

Diary spread on her lap, Kirika appeared not to notice.  There was nothing written on her page.  Her mind kept spinning off on its own tangents.  She felt unable to formulate her thoughts properly, even though she was bursting with ideas.

As her pen finally neared the page, she felt Mireille's touch on her shoulder.  The hand lingered, crept its way towards her neck, and then suddenly retracted.

Kirika glanced over, puzzled.

"I'm sorry."  Mireille whispered, looking away.

"For what?"

"I read your diary."

Kirika shrugged, tossed her notebook back onto the coffee table.  "It doesn't matter." 

She had always been somewhat anxious of Mireille ever reading her personal thoughts, but it was the truth, wasn't it?  Every word, every phrase she had marked in those little lined sheets had come from deep within her soul.  And in the end, who had she been writing to all this time anyway?

She shifted closer to Mireille, thinking of comforting her but not knowing how to go about it.  Mireille only stiffened, tried to draw further away, even though she was already at the end of the couch.  Kirika's casual dismissal did not assuage her guilt.  

"I'm sorry."  She sputtered again.  "I'm sorry I made you wait so long when I never had the strength to do the same."

Kirika slid over, clasped Mireille's hand in her own.  "You forgave me.  What more could I ask for?"

Mireille fought back tears as she put her arms around Kirika again, enjoying the simple feel of having someone warm nearby.  Kirika leaned into her, nuzzling her neck.  Mireille gently stroked her back.  They cuddled together silently, ignoring the need for words.

*  *  *  *  *

The night came in full, darkening the apartment gradually.  Still tangled on the couch, they were both too comfortable to even think about getting up.  Besides, the moonlight was beautiful.  It highlighted Mireille's golden hair, giving it a pure silvery tint.  Kirika reached up, ran her fingers through the hair, watched the moonlight play in her hand.

Why was there a flower in Mireille's hair?  Kirika sat up straighter, saw that the flower was in fact sitting in a pot by the window.  Her plant had bloomed.  "It's beautiful."  She remarked.

Mireille followed Kirika's gaze to the feathery purple petals, enthralled by the magic that seemed to permeate this place.  "You're beautiful."  She whispered breathlessly in defiance, her hand finding its way beneath the other girl's chin, her eyes falling sharply back into Kirika's.

"Let there always be Light and Water for the Tree."  Kirika intoned solemnly.

Mireille kissed her.  "You are my Light and Water."

*  *  *  *  *

END


End file.
